


Plush Toys, or, Madame Tracy Knows All

by CopperBeech



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A Nightingale Sings in Berkeley Square (Good Omens), Domination, Don't copy to another site, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Gratuitous Canoodling, Love Confessions, M/M, Magician Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mild Kink, herpetology, plush toys, slightly naughty fluff, who doesn't love canoodling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech
Summary: In your waking shall be shownJack shall have Jill,Nought shall go ill.-- Midsummer Night's Dream, Act III, Scene ii“People come to me with all sorts of needs, ducks. They want to believe someone on The Other Side still cares for them, they need something they can’t make themselves ask of anyone else, they just need to talk. They’re burning up from the inside because they need to say something they don’t dare, or didn’t say something when they could. Why not take the chance?”





	Plush Toys, or, Madame Tracy Knows All

**Author's Note:**

> This is just plain silly stuff, but I did think that Madame Tracy deserved a bit more, well, exposure. Where would the world be without her pluck, insight, and scooter-riding skills?

_ **London - One Day To The End Of The World** _

“Madame… um… Tracy?”

“What, dear?”

“It’s N – Private Pulsifer. I’ve brought back the plates.”

The door opened. “What a kind boy you are. Thank you, dear.”

“And – ah – Sergeant Shadwell wondered if he might – borrow a few packets of sugar, if you’re done stainin’… um, _soak_in’ the earth with the wine of your fornications.”

“Oh love, I’m done for the afternoon. New customer, and he stood me up. It happens sometimes. Come in.”

Newt stepped inside, carrying a stack of plates and clinking tableware which represented the detritus of, if it be admitted, not just one but several meals. “Where can I put this down?”

“Kitchen’s this way, dear. Mind that rumple in the rug.”

Newt, of course, stumbled right on it, but somehow stayed upright and only dropped silverware in every direction, without breaking anything. “Here we are,” said Madame Tracy.

“I’m sorry…”

“Oh, no worries. Right there on the sideboard, there’s a dear.”

Newt looked around him, back into the sitting room. Pink poufs were everywhere, scarves over the lamps creating a gauzy, harem atmosphere.

Madame Tracy was wearing a long dressing gown whose tie belt dangled free, revealing thigh-high net stockings, a Merry Widow of laced black leather, and a matching velvet choker.

“What – um – exactly do you – well, do?” he asked, knowing it was probably a bad idea, like most of the ones he had.

“For a discipline customer? Well, it depends on the script.”

“Script?”

“Well… yes. It’s more roleplaying than anything.”

“Oh… like panto? I always wanted to be in the panto at school, but they would only make me a be a tree, or that sort of thing. So people come here to study for – well, theater or – ?”

He became aware that Madame Tracy was giving him a considering gaze, then an indulgent smile.

“Oh – why don’t I show you. Just enough to give you the idea. It’s not as if I’d got anything else on, and here I’ve taken all the time to dress for it.” She went out to the sitting room and picked up a small bundle from the couch. “Back that way, just change out of your things and put this on.”

The bundle proved to be a short, black, more or less backless dress, a white ruffled pinafore apron, and a little fan-shaped frilled article that Newt couldn’t begin to understand. Madame Tracy helped pin it into his hair when he emerged from the alarmingly pink bedroom, perplexed.

“Now, you are my maid Desiree and you will address me as Madame. In a French accent, if you can manage it.”

Newt looked down at himself and decided that this had, in fact, been a bad idea. There was a distinct breeze on the bare rear of his legs and he was acutely conscious of his rather baggy Marks and Spencer Y-fronts.

“Your performance has been – “ a stern tone crept into Madame Tracy’s voice – “_unsatisfactory,_ and we are going to determine if you will remain in my employ. Do exactly as directed. Do not speak to me unless I require you to.”

“How do I – “

She flicked him lightly with a pink suede fringed flogger. “I did not give you permission to speak. If I give you a direction you will say Yes, Madame, and nothing else. Go over to the sink.”

“Yes, Madame.”

How do I get myself into these things, Newt wondered silently. But he had, after all, asked.

“Now, you will wash these plates. Use the washing-up liquid on the counter.”

“Yes, Madame.”

He stopped the sink, sank the plates in a mountain of suds, scrubbed them until the days-dried crusts came clean, propped them one by one in the drain-rack. “Now those two copper pots. I want them shining. The polish is in the left-hand cupboard.”

“Yes, Madame.”

Newt began to wonder if he ought to have stuck to being a tree.

“You missed a spot.” The flogger barely flicked his legs. “See to it.”

“Yes, Madame.” Ah. There. Everything was set right now, clean and gleaming.

“Very good, Desiree. Now pick up all those forks and spoons and wash them too. My knees aren’t what they were, and you did drop them.” A brief, queer feeling washed over him; there was a certain tranquility in being told what to do, praised for doing well, scolded – but only gently – for coming up short. It lasted another moment or ten, and then he was just flecked up to his elbows with soapsuds, feeling very silly in an ill-fitting maid’s outfit.

“Well, Desiree, I think you may keep your post.” A heavy sigh from Madame Tracy. “And there, well, there it is. That’s the sort of thing.”

“People pay you for this?”

“Enough.”

“Not – well, not my cup of tea, but I suppose everyone’s…”

“Well talk of that, would you like a spot of tea, ducks?”

Worth the bother, she thought as he fled gratefully back into her boudoir to resume his clothes.. Keeping in practice, and got all the dishes washed, too.

* * *

“Private Pulsifer! What have ye been up to with the Hoor of Babylon all this time, laddie? We must be ever wary of women’s wiles.”

“She just needed some help with the washing-up.”

“Och, weel, I suppose there’s nae harm in that. Hae ye got the sugar?”

“Yes, Mad – I mean, Sergeant.”

* * *

_ **On The Road To Tadfield -- The Day Of The End Of The World** _

As the scooter toiled north, drawing down the miles between them and Tadfield, Shadwell in back hanging on for dear life, Aziraphale felt Madame Tracy go into the Zen mode familiar to anyone who finds their state of flow in controlling a motor vehicle. Their mouth wasn’t moving, but he heard her as clearly as if she were speaking aloud.

“So what are you going to do about him, ducks?”

“The Antichrist? Whatever we can.”

“No, not him. You know who I mean. That tall ginger you can’t stop thinking about. You’re in my head, it’s hard not to notice.”

“I – don’t know what I _can_ do.”

“Tell him how you feel about him? That would be a start.”

“Out of the question.”

“How do you know he doesn’t feel the same way?”

“I’ve been so dreadfully unkind to him. How could he – ”

“Oh love, how long have you known him? He’s still here, isn’t he?”

“He was going to Alpha Centauri. I didn't expect to find him again.”

“But he always found _you_, didn’t he? Risked everything for you, just as you’ve done for him. How many times? Those memories are so strong I can’t miss them. Bet he’d go through fire, so why are you so frightened of saying a few words?”

“ –– “ Aziraphale’s mind simply went blank briefly at the thought.

“There, you see what I mean? It’s getting so warm in here I’d open a window if I could.”

“You wouldn’t understand – “

“People come to me with all sorts of needs, ducks. They want to believe someone on The Other Side still cares for them, they need something they can’t make themselves ask of anyone else, they just need to talk. They’re burning up from the inside because they need to say something they don’t dare, or didn’t say something when they could. Why not take the chance?”

Aziraphale felt the little flicker of her kindness, and also something else.

“If we’re going to discuss this kind of thing, I think you’re a bit fond of Sergeant Shadwell too. And he of you. He’s hanging on rather more snugly than necessary.”

“I know, poppet. And I’ll find the right moment. You will too. Just don’t let it go.”

** _* * *_ **

** _London, Late The Day After The World Didn't End_ **

“Well. That’s all reet, then.”

Madame Tracy regarded Shadwell with fond amusement. They do take a while to get there, she thought, but he did.

“I think we can leave the dishes,” she said, rising to give him an affectionate buss on his stubbly cheek. “I’ll be packing up a lot of this, but I think you deserve an explanation. Or perhaps a little bit of a demonstration.”

Shadwell looked around him warily as she turned on the bead-fringed lamps in the boudoir, with its impossible avalanche of stuffed toys, and the odd objects hanging neatly on hooks beside the wardrobe. She sat down and patted the space next to her on the flower-patterned spread.

“Ye’re not goin’ to turn into the Southern pansy again, are ye? I don’t hold with these modern sorts of things.”

“No, dear. I don’t think he’ll be dropping in.”

Shadwell hesitated and then, tentatively, kissed her, with all the expertise and assurance of a thirteen-year old boy whose mother is in the next room. The contact nicotine rush made her eyes pop.

“Oh dear… perhaps you ought to brush your teeth first. Always good to do that before bed. I’ve set one out for you beside the basin.”

It gave her a moment. She was not about to bother with that leather straitjacket, but the pink satin camisole and knickers went on quickly, and matched her peignoir and the little suede flogger.

“Och, now. There’s no need to work yer perverse wiles on me, womman. I’m a simple man.”

She flicked the suede tails against her hand.

“Come here, love, and let’s see if you’ve cleaned properly.”

She made a thorough, direct inspection, and stood back with a meaningful expression of slight disapproval.

“Well… perhaps just a _little, _Jezebel.”

* * *

_ **Mayfair, Evening, The Day After The World Didn't End** _

After leaving the Ritz, tipsy, still riding the exhilaration of having survived, of having the whole world survive, they wanted to walk, didn’t want to part, couldn’t stop playing over events that had tumbled by too fast. “ – I wish I could have seen your face riding that motorbike, angel – “ “Well, at that point it was Madame Tracy’s face – “ “– I don’t think I’ve seen you with your wings out since Paris – “ “–well, it did frighten off those Sansculottes. They seemed to have a grudge against anyone leaving a restaurant.” “ – Glad they’re not here now. How much champagne did we drink?” “ – Almost enough – ”

The famous plane trees of Berkeley Square cast a deep, almost impenetrable shade. Aziraphale stopped beside one.

“I shall now demonstrate before you a fleet – a _feat_ of prestididi – preggid – prestidigitation.”

“What, here in public?”

Elfishly, the angel pirouetted two turns into the plane-tree’s shadows.

“There. Now, it is a private demonstration. Personal. Command Performance by the Amazing Mister Fell.”

Reaching into his coat, he withdrew from nowhere exactly a largish, pale, fluffy object which could not have possibly been in there a moment before.

“Frivolous miracle. Don’t think anyone’s watching for those just now, do you?”

He presented it to Crowley with a slight bow. "You also see that there is nothing inside my perfectly normal... wait. No top hat."

“Um, okay, what’s this for?” Crowley held into the faint circle of the streetlamp a stuffed, cuddly toy, an effigy of a child’s picture-book angel wearing a white robe and a little gold-foil halo, a music book sewn into one plush hand. It would have looked completely at home on Madame Tracy’s flowered coverlet.

“For you,” said Aziraphale. “It was just an idea that... got into my head somehow. When I was going up to Tadfield.”

“Well… ah… thank you.” Crowley poked the toy angel’s stomach and caught himself ruffling its white fringe of hair.

“Because, well…”

The angel’s tone, and the way he trailed off into silence briefly, focused Crowley’s attention. Some distance away – was that a _nightingale?_ Good job it hadn’t keeled over from all the car fumes in the city long before this. His eyes were adapting to the shadows, enough to make out the nervous, apprehensive expression that came so readily to the angel’s features. It caused a little pang of something that was hard to name.

“Because, Crowley, I have… been very unfair to you. I’ve been unfair to myself too “ – now the words were tumbling out – “you see, no matter what thoughtless things I may have said in the past, I want you to know… I want to be always with you. Forever. And if I can’t be beside you every minute, that’s to remind you I want to be.” Aziraphale drew one sharp breath, sighed it out. “There. I had to get very drunk to say that.” He looked up at Crowley as if expecting him to storm off as he had at the bookshop, or turn into a snake and slither away.

Instead Crowley only stood there, looking at the ridiculous plush angel poppet and then at the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue, which was now nervously licking the maddeningly quirked Cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

“I hope I haven’t...”

Crowley closed the distance between them in two deliberate steps.

“As if,” he said, with a slight, oh so slight, quaver in his voice, "as if I've not been trying to think of a way to get there all evening. No, make that..." he trailed off.

Aziraphale closed his eyes, though not his lips. Six thousand years, and they were standing here drunk in Berkeley Square in what used to be Londinium, that muddy town of thatch and timbers still remembered, with an authentic nightingale warbling its heart out somewhere overhead and an absurd stuffed toy dangling from Crowley’s fingers.

Crowley laid the other hand on the angel’s shoulder, feeling a little tremor, but no retreat, even when he said more softly, "I mean, _serious _ danger there two or three times of my doing something that would have gotten us thrown out of the Ritz."

"Do it now," said Aziraphale. 

His mouth tasted of champagne and flan, as Crowley had always known it would.

* * *

“You’re so soft.”

“That tickles a little.”

“Should I stop?”

“No.”

* * *

“Your hair smells like bergamot lemons and… do you remember that bush in the Garden, the one you’d smell at night…?”

“You smell like warm cinnamon.”

* * *

“I thought you’d be… well. Cooler to the touch. I mean, snakes are cold-blooded.”

“Only when I _am _a snake.”

“Please stay this way for now.”

“This way…?”

“…ooh!”

* * *

“It really is just that tiny bit forked.”

“As will _you_ be, and not just a _tiny_ bit.”

The hand not holding the plush angel drew Aziraphale’s downward.

“Oh my. My dear. That seems … quite big.”

“You're worth a special effort, angel.”

“Isn’t it uncomfortable in those tight trousers? I never understood how you could wear them…”

“Not at all. Not cold blooded, but I _am. Thig_-mo-trop-ic.” Crowley had sobered up, but not entirely, and pronounced it carefully and a bit proudly.

“Do you know, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever used a word I don’t know.”

“Thigmotropic – don’t stop doing that – lots of snakes are. It means we like pushing ourselves – into – ah! – tight spaces.” The sound of the angel sharply sucking in a breath through pursed lips a few seconds later, as the penny dropped. “Oh, now you’d _better_ stop…”

“Oi, mates, get a room!”

The speaker, a late-night cyclist, was gone before they could leap apart.

“Oh dear, I suppose we might be attracting attention.”

“My place, I think?”

* * *

_**Jasmine Cottage** _

The morning after the morning after the world didn’t end, Anathema Device awoke to a sunbeam across the sheets in the bedroom of Jasmine Cottage, and sounds of industry in the kitchen, with the occasional unmistakable chink of dishes in the rack. She stuffed her glasses blearily onto her face, found her dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door, and blundered into the kitchen to find Newton Pulsifer, wearing a frilly apron that had been hanging on a nail in the pantry cupboard when she took possession, up to his elbows in soapsuds, having just reached the end of the backlog of dishes that had accumulated in those last intense, packed days before, well, before the world didn’t end.

“Good morning, Madame,” he said, dropping in something like a curtsey. His eyes twinkled a bit behind the glasses.

She looked around. Every one of the pots and skillets had been scoured and polished till they gleamed on their hooks. The table was laid.

“Is everything to Madame’s satisfaction?” he asked.

“Well. This is… impressive,” she said and advanced across the kitchen to kiss him. Their noses got in the way. He made a game of it. The kettle whistled.

“How would Madame like her tea?” he said, stepping back.

“Wow. I could get used to this,” she said.

“You should,” he replied.

* * *

_ **London** _

“I made breakfast, dear.”

Shadwell opened one eye. The other was covered by a stuffed unicorn with glitter in its tail, which itched.

Madame Tracy had brought in a tray, with toast, tea and a plate of beans and bacon.

“Something to keep your strength up. It's been quite a week.”

He pushed the unicorn to the side and sat up. The sun was shining full in the windows.

“Or do you have witches to find? It’s just gone ten.”

“I have found one,” he announced solemnly.

“Oh! Cheek!” She giggled. “Just let me put this tray down.”

“Coom here, Jezebel,” he said. "Ye've yet to see ivrything ma Thundergun can do."

* * *

_ **A Flat In Mayfair - Morning** _

“I do love you, you know. I think I always have. It’s not just lust.”

“ 's your department, innit?" A pause. "Thing is, I love you too, angel." Another pause. "But I’m not letting go of you until you do that again. Waited long enough.”

“That?”

“_Ssssssssss._ Maybe I won’t let you go at all.”

“Well, I do have to open the shop sometime.”

“Because you have _so_ many books to sell.”

Several silent minutes, then: "She was right, you know. You did go through fire."

"Who was right?"

"Madame Tracy. We had a little time to talk in there."

Another silence.

“Oh, now who’s doing things?”

The world went on around them, not ending.

_finis_

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hello on Tumblr @CopperPlateBeech


End file.
